


Built Up

by Anonymous



Series: Hands for Hurting, Hands for Holding [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Jon, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, and wholesome ones dont worry, but like s4 canon typical Jon style suicidal behavior, series once acain off anon bc people are gonna clutch their pearls at all my other fics anyway, this is gonna be rough but then better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21534745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A lot has changed in the last six months. Jon hopes it's for the better.ON INDEFINITE HIATUSUPDATE: 04/2020
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, background Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas - Relationship
Series: Hands for Hurting, Hands for Holding [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555159
Comments: 66
Kudos: 244
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	1. Chapter 1

One of the perks of Martin’s size is that none of the nurses stop him as he stalks down the hall, policeman in tow, and slams the door open.

“I thought you’d be here,” he says. “What the _hell_ are you doing.”

Elias looks taken aback at the fire in Martin’s voice, even though he surely must have seen the two of them coming. As though he’d be anything but _furious._

”Ah, Martin. I am...sorry to hear about Tim.”

”Don’t.”

”And Dai—“

”Don’t,” Martin snaps. “Don’t you _dare._ I told them not to let you in here.”

Elias gives him a bland smile. Like he’s not sitting close enough to touch Jon. Battered, unconscious, helpless Jon.

“Yes, well. Unfortunately this hospital is not in the practice of denying entry to patients’ emergency contacts.”

Of course he would have changed the records. He’d probably do anything to get access to Jon. Has he touched him? Has he _hurt_ him again as he lays unable to resist?

Martin’s read a lot of stories, a lot of statements, where people move before they can think. Where instinct or emotion takes over and they lash out or run into danger.

But no, oh no, he actively _chooses_ to punch Elias in the mouth. The resulting yelp vibrates sickly satisfying down his fist and into his bones. The cop gives him an appraising look.

“Well, Mister Blackwood,” he says, in that unpleasant bored drawl of his, “I daresay I’ve never seen a man hit himself quite so hard. If I’m not careful he may do it again.”

Martin is sorely tempted to take him up on the offer. Elias’ lip is dripping blood and he looks shocked, dazed. Aghast. Offended.

He could do it right here. Grab a fistful of immaculately arranged hair and drive his knee into Elias’ stomach. Bash his head into the corner of one of the heavy-looking monitors again and again until one of them broke. Perhaps he should want to, but the thought makes him feel sick.

“Best be careful, then.”

“As you like. Elias Bouchard?”

“Yes,” Elias says, warily. Good, the fucking snake, let him be the helpless, frightened one for once.

“You’re under arrest.”


	2. Chapter 2

Six months.

Six months, and Tim and Daisy are gone.

He has to get out of here.

“Elias.”

Basira is quiet.

“Oh, god, what did he do? Is Martin—?”

Hes only just woke up and the world is swimming. His breath starts to come hard and sharp, wheezes out of his sore throat.

”Jon, calm down.”

He can’t stay here, he’s left Elias alone with Martin, what kind of things has he Shown him? He has to explain himself, or better, apologize before the reality of the pathetic person he is sinks in. But it’s been _six months,_ plenty of time to process it and be properly disgusted.

“_Jon,_” Georgie says. Not sharply, but strongly. “What do you hear?”

He drops his gaze to her hands. They’re still lighter than his, and soft, with stubby nails. One grips his, and the other simply rests on top.

“Focus, Jon. What do you hear?”

They’d done this a lot in uni, when Jon’s workload was too much or he had to accept mail with the wrong name, so sure everyone would somehow see the little printed letters and know it was supposed to be _him._

_What do you hear? What do you feel? What do you see?_

“i-I,” he wheezes. “I—I hear the recorder turning.”

“What do you smell?”

Jon takes a shuddering breath, too small and too fast but better.

“I smell Basira’s detergent. A-And hospital.”

His chest hurts. Everything should hurt, shouldn’t it? He should be in more pain. He was _blown up._

He draws another breath, lets it out shakily.

“What do you see?”

“I-I see your hands. I see the, the scar on your knuckle.”

“You better, you’re the one who closed the oven on me.”

He manages a smile. It feels weak and wrong. “I seem to remember apologizing.”

She leaves, after that. He can’t blame her. Can’t force her to stay and take care of him, that’s not her responsibility.

“If this is a second chance, please try to take it. But,” she says, slipping her hand out of his, “I don’t think that it is. I’ll...I’ll see you.”

She won’t. He doesn’t know how to tell her that it’s alright. That he Knows she doesn’t want to.

  
  


He hates how much better he feels after the statement. Worse, after Basira’s questions.

“Is Martin okay? Did Elias...” He doesn’t know how to ask. He doesn’t know how to make her understand what he’s afraid of.

“Elias isn’t a problem. He’s locked up.”

Relief, aching but small and weak. Shouldn’t he feel better about that?

“Well, I. I suppose that’s a relief. It worked, then?”

“Yeah. A bunch of sectioned officers took him in. He made some sort of deal, I think, but he’s not getting out anytime soon.”

Figured. He’s probably living it up in there. Jon wonders if they even make him wear a uniform, or if he’s in some sort of luxury suite the regular taxpayers don’t know they’re funding. Watching and rubbing his hands together like a bloody cartoon villain.

“There’s something else.” Of _course_ there is.

“What?”

Basira rubs her eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

“He appointed an interim director. Guy called Peter Lukas.”

Everything stops.

No.

This can’t be happening. This is another nightmare, it has to be because Peter Lukas is a ship captain and a monster and would never tie himself to the land and oh god, he’s been given free reign over everyone Jon cares about for _six months_.

”No,” he gasps. His throat is closing, closing, his vision narrowing. “No, that's not possible."

“Jon, breathe.”

He can’t. He _can’t_.

“_What did he do to Martin?_”

His voice is so laden with Compulsion that the recorder shrieks with static, that it feels like his teeth might vibrate right out of his head.

“I don’t know. We don’t see him around the Archives much these days—Jon, you need to calm down. Breathe through it, we’ll figure something out. As far as we know he isn’t hurt.”

As far as they know. And they don’t know _anything,_ because he’s failed to prepare them for this. Images pass unbidden behind his eyes. Dark bruises on his skin, a bloody bite that took too long to close up and ached whenever he moved his shoulder. Scratches and scrapes and rug burn on his hands and knees.

Or bruises on much paler skin. Soft and freckled, and left all alone and unaware because of Jon’s cowardice.

Oh, _god_.

“No,” he chokes out. He doesn’t know what else to say. There are no other words.

He knows she’s trying, but he doesn’t want her. He doesn’t _want_ her. He wants Martin, he wants Martin to be here and hold his hand and ask gentle questions and let him stop answering when it becomes too much. He wants _Martin_. How disgustingly selfish of him.

He wraps his arms around himself and distantly hears her running off to fetch someone—a nurse, maybe, or even Georgie, god, he hopes she doesn’t get Georgie. He clutches the sides of his flimsy hospital gown and curls up and trembles and cries into his knees as quietly as he can and all he wants is to hear Martin’s voice. To know he’s okay.

All he wants is _Martin_.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin doesn’t think he hates Peter. Not really.

He’s annoying, and a bit too physical, and of course an eldritch monster, but he’s just sort of...there. Or rather, not there. He’s just a mild irritant that Martin’s ended up working for or with depending on the angle he looks at it from.

The Lonely, though. The isolation. That bothers him. The deep, gnawing ache, the hole where other people used to be.

The simple fact of how easy it was to slip into. He’s all alone. Has been for a long time.

He’s lost Tim, and his mother, and Basira’s distant and Melanie’s pulling away. Not that they were ever friends. And Jon’s...

Jon seems so far, even now, like the stairs down to the Archives are an ocean to cross. He shouldn’t even think about it anymore, Jon’s never liked him and only needed him when he was at his worst.

But at the same time, he’s _awake,_ and that faint hope feels worse than drowning.

He thinks he hates that the most. The way everything he’s supposed to love causes him misery. How the very idea of speaking to another person has started to set his teeth to grinding. How brushing against someone on the tube, however brief and impersonal the touch, has started to make his skin crawl. 

How now that Jon’s awake, and that desperate hope burns in him, he’s started to notice things.

The oppressive quiet that hangs over the hallways. How the temperature never quite seems warm enough, but never outright cold enough for the comforts of heavy blankets and sweaters. 

How, when his job does make him speak to other people, it always seems to be the worst people in each department.

Shirley, the rude and presumptuous woman from Artifact Storage who always assumed you had time to hear about her entitled kid’s football team. The jerk called Adam in Accounts who used to whisper loudly about how hot _almost_ everyone in the Archives was, his eyes lingering on Martin as he said _almost_. Those absolute cunts Kenneth and Allison in HR who speculate aloud about people’s ethnicities, who even asked Jon ‘what he was’ at a Christmas party. 

(Though Martin supposes he should thank them; he remembers them making guesses about Sasha, when she was still the real Sasha, all of which contradict the blandly pretty white woman he remembers.)

Meg the night receptionist, who simply chewed with her mouth open and left half empty packets of crisps all over the desk for the poor day receptionist to clean up.

He knows what Peter’s doing. Entwining interaction with anger with discomfort. Telling him _Oh, but isn’t this what you wanted?   
_

Phone calls on phone calls on meetings on errands until he’s exhausted and hateful, which Martin can’t help but compare to being made to smoke the whole pack of cigarettes. 

And Martin hates that it’s working. Hates that most days he thinks that if Peter Lukas is the only other person he sees for the rest of his life, that’s fine by him.

(It’s not, but he knows it’s best for everyone if he never sees Jon again).

(He still misses him. He will never stop missing him.)


	4. Chapter 4

Jon finds himself keeping strange hours these days.

Part of it is trying to sleep as little as possible. He's plagued by two sensations: guilt, at the terrible nightmares he knows he's only a guest in, and a deep, choking, clawing fear that this will be the time he won't wake up again. That he'll be there again, trapped. He remembers little of the coma besides the dreams, but he remembers feeling flayed and trapped and _choosing_ because for all his misery he's still desperately afraid to die.

(Often, wheezing as quietly as he can through another panic attack, sick and dizzy and feeling stupid for spiraling at the mere touch of a hand to his skin, he thinks it was entirely the wrong choice.)

That’s the other part of it. He finds himself prone to these fits, emotions swerving wildly like a lorry on an icy motorway.

Feeling strangely numb and floaty as he listens to himself read a statement from somewhere just over his own shoulder, then trying and failing not to openly weep as he microwaves another cold, forgotten mug of tea. Brief spurts of terror, flinching when Basira reaches in his direction, and finding himself unable to tear his eyes from her hand for the rest of the conversation. Impotent rage, where he barely manages not to throw anything, every sound and sensation down to the buzz of electric light grating on his mind.

And under it all, the gnawing melancholy of Martin's continued absence. For a while he tries to tell himself it's everyone, that he hasn't seen anyone but Basira in days and even that's rare, but fails to see the point of pretending. He misses Martin. He can still picture Martin's face with clarity, which is a cruelty and a kindness all in one, but...

But when did Martin's face go from a burst of irritation, not-this-fool-again, to a soft wash of comfort? When did Martin’s gormless face become Martin’s kind face, sweet face, become Martin’s lovely face? When did Martin’s face become the only thing Jon wants to see?

It’s kind of fucked up that the first unusual thing he notices about Melanie, when he _finally_ sees her after _days_ of isolation, is how relaxed she seems. Nothing like the coiled spring she was when they left.

“Melanie,” he says, quietly.

She jumps. He’s already fucked this up. He takes a few steps back, apology already on his tongue. He can just go back to his office, avoid her wrath and pretend he's not so desperately alone and a bloody monster to boot.

“Oh—Jon. Hey.”

She grabs the crutch leaning up against her desk, which Jon realizes he should have noticed but then he’s distracted as she gets to her feet.

Foot.

Gets to her...

Foot.

He looks over the leg again just to be sure.

Hip, thigh, knee...nothing.

“_What happened?_” he Asks before he can stop himself.

“Had it cut off about a month ago. You know there’s sort of a Section 31 for doctors? The ones who saw weird stuff kind of clump together.”

A beat.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

Melanie sighs. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but I get it.”

Her tone hurts. It's the tone everyone has used his whole life when he's done something annoying and rude but they pity him, so they tolerate it. 

(_Be nice to him, he’s an orphan. Be nice to him, he’s got no friends. Be nice to him, he’s been assaulted_.)

“So, er. It was the bullet, after all?”

“Yeah. I figured instead of losing the parts that weren’t anger I should just...lose the part that was.”

"Smart." She knows it was smart, Jon, you idiot. Say something else, say something useful before she gets angry.

”I was, er. I was just going to make tea, if you’re interested.” 

He wasn’t, but he supposes he is now. He’s not entirely sure why. It just seems right to offer. 

”I’ll pass. I hear you’re bollocks at tea.” 

Jon splutters.

”You—wh-from who?” But then he Knows, unhelpfully, who. “Oh, I. I see.” 

Melanie smacks his arm and he nearly manages not to flinch. 

”Don’t read my mind, or I’m gonna start digging up all the extra spidery cases." He uncurls as she adds, almost sheepishly, "Or at least if you do, let me answer anyway.”

He nods, weak, and finds he can’t even look her in the face. He’d rather hoped she’d offer to come with him, supervise maybe, or practice with her crutch. He doesn’t need the Eye to know she wants him to carry on as though nothing has changed.

Oh, god, he _can't_ be alone here anymore. Not with Lukas possibly around. He can't tell her, of course, she'll just be angry he didn't before, but...

Maybe...maybe just this once, he can ask for what he wants?

”Could you...Could you come with me anyway?” He keeps his eyes on the floor, her shoe, counts the eyelets on her trainer. “I’d just...I really don’t want to be alone.” 

There's movement in the corner of his eye. Maybe a shrug?

"Of course."

He looks her in the face. Her calm, open face. He very nearly questions her. What could she possibly mean 'of course', like they weren't basically enemies when they last spoke. So much has changed without him.

"Thanks."


	5. Chapter 5

_Hands on his thighs. Impeccable nails dragging angry marks into his skin. He’ll feel them later, rubbed raw by his clothes, chafing, and almost cry in front of Basira.   
_

_He used to like wearing skirts. Now he thinks he’ll never wear one again, because Elias likes the scandalous, lecherous feeling of reaching up it to get to his skin. _

_Elias thinks it makes him feel dirty. Elias has no idea what it is to feel dirty._

_”You looked lovely like this,” Elias says. This is not what he said on this day.   
_

_”Leave me alone,” Jon says. This is exactly what he said on this day._

_"Don't be rude when I'm paying you a compliment, Jon. You don’t want to be ungrateful, do you?"_

_Elias' hands squeeze, threaten to bruise. Strong. So strong._

_"I’m sorry,” he mumbles. _

_”I miss you,” Elias says, sickly sweet and false._

_The people outside are not real, this time. So Jon screams and screams_ _and screams. _Screamsuntil he wakes with ringing ears. 

He’s not sure this one was real. It lacked the clarity, the precision of Elias’ visits. He moves his cot to the tunnels, just in case_. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, guys. I promise I am still working on this I’m just like...way better with feelings than plot.


	6. Chapter 6

He can’t help but think of the old adage about being careful what one wishes for. Seeing Martin again was...God, it was awful.

Jon's always had trouble with eye contact but it's worse now. He can barely look people in the face. Never knowing for sure if he's correctly read their expression or simply Known their feelings.

It's hard to look at Basira. Knowing Daisy's trapped in a hell of crushing earth. Knowing Tim's dead. Knowing that for a few months, so was he. He really wishes he'd had the guts to choose differently.

It’shard to look at Melanie too, some days. What's left of her. It's hardly a life-ending change but it was a hard choice he can't help but feel he forced her to make. If he'd said something different, _done_ something different, she wouldn't have gone to India in the first place. Wouldn't have had a little piece of violence slowly leeching into her blood. Wouldn't have been forced to submit to mutilation to hold onto herself. Wouldn't be trapped here.

But Martin. God, Martin, the one person he wants so desperately to see, had been torture. By the end of their bumbling little conversation (_please stop finding me, _and everything in him felt like newspaper in the rain), Martin's face was hard and stern in a way Jon had never seen before. He realizes now that it’s also a little thinner. Martin’s a little thinner. It’s frightening in a way he can’t pin down, like Martin is slowly losing pieces until one day he won’t be there at all.

God, he's a coward. He couldn't even warn Martin about Peter. The words just wouldn't come out.

(Alternatively, an idea that makes him shrivel inside, makes him tear at his hair until tears spring to his eyes, haunts him in the wee hours when everything is silent but his own mind. The idea that Martin might very well know. It _haunts_ him, the image of a familiar bloody bite on Martin’s freckly shoulder instead of his.)

Some of it slips out eventually. With Basira.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly into his tea. He doesn't exactly mean to say it, not now, and not like this, hunched like a gargoyle at his desk with her hovering awkwardly in the doorway. Not when they're both bone-tired, when the bags under her eyes are almost the same deep purple as her hijab.

"What for?"

He shrugs. Pretends nothing comes to mind when really it's so many things at once that he can feel the guilt pressing against his teeth, threatening to pop his eyes from their sockets. A constant pressure.

“I just...I know you think it would’ve been better if I’d never woken up–”

“When did I say that?” Basira says, sharply. 

“I–” Jon stammers. Of course she's angry, why wouldn't she be angry. “I just Knew it, I’m sorry, I _am_ trying not to.”

“No, when did I _say_ that? Did I ever say that to you?”

“Well, no, but–I’m sorry, but I Know you thought it.”

“Yeah? And did you Know what I thought after that?”

“No, I—“

”I thought what _bullshit_ that was.”

Jon blinks up at her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“When was the last time the Eye showed you anything good? Anything that made anyone anything but miserable or scared?”

“I…I suppose never.”

“It doesn’t give us the whole picture, Jon. Just the parts that’ll feed it. Yeah, I thought that, but when I actually _think_ about it? I’m...I’m working on being glad you’re here.”

Her round face is pinched, screwed up. Trying to figure out Emotions. Jon is infinitely empathetic.

"I'm glad I'm not the only one. That I didn't lose everyone to the Unknowing. It sucks, yeah, trying to sort out what to do and how to feel, but at least one of you came out alive."

"I'm sorry it had to be me."

”Yeah, well, so am I."

She scrubs her hands over her face, slips her glasses off to pinch the bridge of her nose. "But...But that's not helpful. I’m working on being grateful. You...”

She leans her hip on his desk. Close enough to smell her soap. (Sandalwood, from the little Vietnamese grocery by her flat. She ventures out for sundries every few weeks, keeps her sane. He ought to ask if he can tag along, but perhaps he ought to be grateful for the cheap, bland toiletries she brings him.) 

”You trusted me with what happened to you. You trusted all of us. Somewhere, under all of it, I think that still means something to me.” 

Not as much as Daisy. Not as much as _not_ having to babysit a newborn monster, or not being stuck here in the first place.

"We were very nearly friends, once. I think."

Her expression tightens into familiar rictus neutrality. She doesn't want him to know how that made her feel.

"More or less."

He's reasonably sure that means _less._

The shape of an idea is starting to resolve itself. Well, less an idea and more a grim determination.

He'll get Daisy back. For her. He's probably going to die trying, but if it means she stops having to try so hard to force gratitude for an asshole like him, it's probably for the best.


	7. DISCONTINUED (EDIT AS OF 4/16/20)

<strike>As of today (February 5 2020) I will no longer be writing or updating this series, at least for the foreseeable future. You also may notice I’ve placed the lot back on anon; it was stupid and risky of me to attach my name to this series. </strike>

<strike>I should never have written this. I don’t know what kind of Martian brain worms I must have to even think about this kind of stuff, let alone actually publish it. There’s something wrong with me. </strike>

<strike>I don’t intend to delete or orphan these docs because as sure as I am now, I’m also aware that certain circumstances of mine make it unwise to make such permanent decisions at this time. I’m sorry to all of you who enjoyed this series but I can’t handle the stress and this is a risk I didn’t know the magnitude of. I have things to lose. </strike>

<strike>I am planning on removing the fandom tags on this series so that anyone looking for Magnus fic will not find it, so if you want to reread it bookmark it now.</strike>

<strike>Thanks for reading.</strike>

EDIT: 4/16/2020

Thanks everyone for your support. I'm in a much better headspace now.

It is extremely unlikely that I will be continuing. I'm feeling a lot better but just thinking about this fic makes me feel horrible. I miss being proud of it.

I also feel really bad that I may have misled most of you: I was not harassed over this fic, and I'm sorry I made you think I was. I didn't know that's how I would come across, though I probably should have. I have since been approached on other works of mine by at least one anti who remembered my username from when this wasn't anon (who has the energy to remember that kind of thing?), but the reason I discontinued was the sheer volume of unwelcoming, mean posts about how certain people don't "belong" in the Magnus fandom, about "freaks" and the like. I've never been in a fandom space this small, or maybe this fandom is just much nastier than any other I've been in, so I never expected the sheer volume of unwelcoming, judgemental, hurtful people. 

Thanks again for your support, and I'm sorry I couldn't give this the healthy, hopeful ending I wanted to. It's just not fun for me anymore.

Thanks for reading and stay safe out there. It's a much harsher landscape than I ever thought.


End file.
